The Red Poppy Press came into my life at a moment when I wasn’t really looking for anything. Or maybe I was looking for something—I just didn’t have the words for it yet. Have you ever got that feeling? Like you’re kind of floating through it all, not exactly lost, but definitely not anchored. That’s where I was. Somewhere in between doing okay and quietly falling apart.
I found their page through a shared Instagram story—one of those late-night scrolls when your brain’s tired but too wired to sleep. A line from a poem caught me off guard. It went something along the lines of, “You’re not falling apart—you’re opening up.” Can’t say if that was word-for-word, but it landed hard. Not for being poetic or deep or anything, but because it was real. But because it was simple and true, and said out loud what I hadn’t even admitted to myself.
The Quiet Before It All Shifted
Just to be clear before I dive in—I wasn’t in some kind of crisis. I had stability. Work, a place to sleep, folks who checked in. But my days? They started to feel weirdly hollow. Kind of faded around the edges. The days blurred. I woke up tired, went through the motions, and smiled when expected. You know the drill.
I wasn’t unhappy, exactly. But I was disconnected from myself. It was like observing everything through a thick pane of glass—present, but disconnected. And honestly, I wasn’t even sure if smashing through it was possible.
Then came the team of Red Poppy. A small, independent thing, no big brand flashiness, no over-polished messaging. Just raw, honest, beautiful writing. Poetry, musings, sometimes messy journal entries.I thought of it as something someone wrote at 3 a.m. because they couldn’t fall asleep due to a busy mind and heart. I was attracted to it because it didn’t have any bells and whistles; it was genuine. Completely alive in its mess.
Not curated to perfection. Not pretending to have answers. Just… feeling it all out, one sentence at a time.
A Postcard and a Realization
One day, I ordered a hand-printed postcard from them. It had this crooked little typewritten note: “Not every bloom looks like the last. Grow weird.” I taped it above my desk without thinking too hard about it. It made me smile.
But over time, I kept looking at it. Like, really looking. I started asking myself questions I’d been avoiding.
Why did I stop writing my stuff?
Why did my creativity feel locked away?
And maybe toughest of all—why did I keep putting things off, waiting for the moment life got smoother before I let myself care again?
I’m not sure if it was the timing or just something small clicking into place, but that crooked little card flipped a switch. Bit by bit, messy and unsure, I picked up my pen again. Scribbles at first. Thoughts that didn’t make sense. I’d cross out sentences three times before leaving them alone. But they were mine.
It wasn’t some grand, cinematic life transformation. It was quiet. Clumsy. Incomplete. But it was real.
Coffee Rings, Ink, and Unspoken Grief
Meanwhile, there was this quiet kind of grief I’d been hauling around. I hadn’t looked it in the eye yet. Not fresh, not sharp anymore. More like a dull ache that showed up during long drives or empty weekends.
One morning, I spilled coffee on my notebook. Normally, I would’ve freaked out, tossed the page, tried to “fix” it. But that morning, I just stared at the blotchy mess and thought: Yup, that’s about right.
I ended up writing around the stain. It felt symbolic, in this weird artsy way I’d usually make fun of. But the truth? It helped. I felt less alone. Like maybe the messy parts were allowed to stay.
Later that week, The Red Poppy Press posted a zine called “Soft Things for Hard Days.” I bought it without thinking twice. Inside were stories from strangers who were also trying to figure out how to feel again. Some wrote about heartbreak, others about burnout, identity, starting over at 40, quitting jobs, getting lost, and coming back.
It was chaotic and beautiful and incredibly comforting. Like someone had opened a window in a stuffy room I didn’t know I was sitting in.
The Self I Forgot I Missed
Ever have one of those tiny moments—maybe you organize a drawer or stumble across an old song—and out of nowhere, you feel like you again? Just for a heartbeat? That started happening more often.
I began leaving sticky notes for myself. Dumb stuff. “Don’t text your ex,” or “Buy avocados,” or “Hey, you’re not failing.” I talked to myself out loud. Sang in the car again. I even started cracking myself up again.
Bit by bit, I felt something shift—not a complete overhaul, more like picking up pieces I hadn’t realized I’d dropped.
And maybe that’s all self transformed, i am. Not a total reinvention. Just a reminder. A slow, stubborn crawl back to your center.
Funny enough, The Red Poppy Press never promised healing. They never claimed to have the secret sauce. But that’s why it worked. They made room for the in-between. The trying. The almost-there.
Letting the Weird Bloom
One night, I stayed up way too late rereading their older posts. Some were typo-filled, others weirdly worded. But every line felt like it had been lived. Not researched or polished to death. Lived.
And I realized—that’s what I wanted too. Not some dramatic life transformation. Just the chance to live messily, honestly. To stop holding my breath.
I started saying “no” more often. Quit a project that drained me. Took walks without music. I let the quiet do what it needed to.
And when things got heavy again—because they still do—I stopped pretending everything was fine. But I also didn’t spiral. I just… sat with it. Maybe journaled. Maybe didn’t. But I permitted myself to stay soft.
Not a Conclusion, But a Continuation
So here I am now—still figuring it out, still fumbling, still occasionally crying at print-on-demand poetry. But I’m awake again. Not perfectly. Not consistently. But enough to know I want to stay this way.
If someone asked me how it all changed, I probably wouldn’t have a clean answer. Because there wasn’t a moment when the curtain lifted and everything made sense.
There was just a line in a poem.
There was just a line in a poem.
A stained notebook.
A strange, wonderful little press called The Red Poppy Press—quietly, gently, the place where I felt self transformed.
